Poetry

What Will Remain?

She knows it will come to an end,

But not in the same way he does,

And when it occurs, he wonders,

What will remain of days like these,

With her riding  shotgun through

The sunburnt  contours of southern Crete,

Or of all the other journeys

With her sister and her brother,

Lit by a fellowship between father and child

Sought,  mostly without success, as son,

But that somehow, at least in his mind, 

Has come to pass, and that, though trained

To never admit a thing like this, often leads him

In moments of darkened calm, or on long drives alone,

To regress to the fluorescence  of Middle School crushes

And silently mouth their three sacred names

….. over and over and over again.